


The Secret Life

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, F/M, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes little reasoning to know that a woman of Beth Greene's station needs must marry. If only her choice could have been someone of higher station than the Grimes family stableboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Life

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading a book written in 1899 and this happened. The story takes place in a weird blend of post-Civil War Georgia and Jane Austen-y England. I'm not sure exactly which is more accurate. The title is from the 2005 _Pride and Prejudice_ soundtrack.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Every now and then they walk with each other along the water, through the reeds and thickets to the sounds of the thrushes breaking for the sky, his arm for once not braced to halt them. There is sometimes sun and there is sometimes rain but it is never the weather that decides whether they go or stay.

He doesn’t speak to her when they see each other in town. The do not cross paths often, but when they do Beth is often with her sister and he is always alone, and even when he finds Beth in her solitude he turns his head as if seeking someone else’s face in the crowd. She knows the why of it—knows the turns her father would take, were it rumored the Grimes’s stableboy had taken up with a gentlewoman—and yet she cannot help but feel the injustice of it all. She and Jimmy Hawthorne may speak however much they like and they may do so without any other company at all, as long as it is in daylight or at a gathering. But Daryl must turn his face.

The families of the area never knew quite what to make of the ruffian that Rick Grimes brought home from war. It was on that account that Mr. Grimes took him on as a servant, so he would not become the topic of wicked conversation. Servants occasion little to no comment, after all, so long as they perform with aplomb.

And no one can say that Dixon does not do his job. Up with the dawn and down long past the sun, he became the man who does what needs doing. He tends Mr. Grimes’s stock, yes, but he also fetches ribbons for Mrs. Grimes and walks little Carl to school, and the area is quick to learn that if you need something fixed, wooden or mechanical, you go see Grimes’s Dixon.

Beth met him in the fields at dawn. She was walking as she is wont to do and had paused to observe a wild hare with a smile, when with nothing but a _whoosh_ an arrow flew through the air and stuck itself clean through the poor hare. Oh, did she throw a fit, crying out and asking why he would do such a thing. He said the Grimes were having a ball and unlike the Greenes, _ma’am_ , not everyone has the means to purchase from the butcher. That had shut Beth up, even if she did take a moment to stroke the hare’s downy head.

She did not wonder until later how it is he knew she was a Greene.

Beth is wont to walk at dawn, but slowly it became a daily exercise—drifting her hands across the tall grasses as she wandered from the path, losing herself so he might find her. He always did, every morning. At first they would simply nod, exchange pleasantries, and continue on their own ways. But then Dixon asked, red-faced and a little fidgety, if he could walk her back to her farm. Not to the door, of course, but close enough that she might see the chimney of the main house above the trees. Beth did not recognize the fluttery feeling that rose in her heart at the gesture, nor the ceaseless pounding it took to when he brushed his hand against hers for the first time; but she enjoyed his company, and he seemed to be enjoying hers, and on days when Beth knew he would be hunting she would find some excuse to slip away and find him.

It was almost a year into their acquaintanceship when Maggie Greene became engaged and suddenly Beth was faced with the reality of her future. She need not marry for money but someday soon she needs must marry, for the Greenes are a respectable family and it does not do to have a daughter who goes traipsing around the countryside.

 _She needs a ring on her hand_ , she overhears her father say to Mr. Grimes one day, _and a brood of children to keep her steady. Lord knows, my Annette was just like her until we married. It took the duties of running a household to clear her of her childish whims._

Beth could not sleep that whole night, and she spent the last hour before dawn in agony, knowing she must not go out in the dark but knowing too that she could not stay. And so it was in the half-light that she slipped from the house, bothering only to put on sturdy shoes under the hem of her nightdress.

She did not have long to wander. He found her before she even reached the brook, watched dumbfounded as tears streamed down her cheeks and she lamented her life, lamented her position, lamented it all except this one thing she kept secret and close to her heart—and as she said the words she took his hands and squeezed them against her breast so he might feel how ardently her inner muscle beat for him. He is a man of few words, and he didn’t use them; simply stepped in close so she might feel his chest against the back of her knuckles, how hard he was pounding too. And they did not kiss that morning but the next, against a tree on the riverbank with Beth’s hair flowing loose and free into his hands.

They must be careful; oh, they must be more careful than ever before, for what was once an innocent morning diversion is so much more now, and would be so even if they did not bear each other into the leaves and grass, neither knowing quite what to do except that his body against hers felt good and grew feelings in them like an inner storm.

So often were they bad, kissing long into the morning, that the new Mrs. Rhee could not help but suspect the manner of the spell that had befallen her sister. She herself had been through it, after all, sneaking about with Mr. Rhee, knowing it would take her father some time to see a stranger from the north as eligible for her hand. Maggie suspects the same of Beth—a foreigner, or a member of the militia; someone itinerant and thus soon to leave and break her poor sister’s heart.

But when she talks to Beth, her sister will not hear of it. She is so rarely home these days that such conversations have little chance of occurring; but even when they do, Maggie feels a resistance from Beth that she has never experienced before. Wasn’t Beth the first person she told about Mr. Rhee— _Glenn_ , as she would whisper to herself at night, tingling with the remembrance of his hand in hers—before all others, before her father, before her other friends? Would Beth not extend to her the same confidence?

Maggie decides to follow Beth out one morning. It is not hard—Beth seems lost to her own thoughts, and her steps diverge from the trodden path, bending the grass in their wake. Maggie creeps along as silently as she can until she hears voices and drops herself into the long grass, peeking through.

Her jaw drops as well at what she sees. Beth sits on a rock extending into the brook, her shoes and socks beside her as her feet cool in the water. She has in her hand a pile of small, flat rocks, which she is attempting to skip across the surface of the water. She is not very good at it; but when she manages to achieve three skips, she lets out a delighted laugh, turning with glee to the man at her side.

Dixon’s shoes and socks are off too, his trousers rolled up as he sits with one leg in the water and the other braced on the rock, his arm slung across his knee. His other hand sits casually close to Beth’s bottom; as Maggie watches, his pinky moves, stroking the fabric of Beth’s dress. He’s looking down at Beth’s smile with a smile of his own—an expression Maggie doesn’t think she’s ever seen on his dour face—and as Beth chatters away he leans forward and with the ease of familiarity presses a kiss to her grin which she returns in kind, letting the pebbles in her hand drop to the rock as she flings her arms around his neck to hold him close.

Maggie is trembling as she creeps away as silently as she can, and once she is far enough away that she is sure she will not be detected she stands and starts in a run towards home. She suspected Beth had a beau—most young women do at some point, it is not unusual—but a stableboy? And one with a mysterious past at that, and so much older, and such large, hard, uncouth hands–

Daryl normally would have noticed Maggie within moments of her crawling into the reeds, but as he always seems to do with Beth, he forgot himself—knew only the sunshine on his head and the water cooling his foot and the softness of her dress under his finger, second only to the softness of her lips. He feels bold, daring when he kisses her mid-sentence—like it is something a gallant would do in one of the stories Beth brings with her sometimes, to read to him. He knows how to read—a fact that never fails to surprise those who learn it—but he still enjoys listening to these stories in Beth’s voice, soft and melodious and in harmony with the grass and bugs around them, the rustle of the natural world. He hears her voice reading those words and he is transported to worlds where he might win her hand with a heroic act; or where they might run away together, find a dragon’s hoard and live richly on the gold and on each other.

But they are in this world, and it is getting late; the sun is almost an hour past sunrise and Mr. Grimes will be wondering after him, just like Beth’s father will worry after her. They let their feet dry in the sun then pull their socks and shoes back on. Daryl does it quickly for himself, then stays Beth’s hands when she attempts to attend to herself; cups her delicate foot in his hand and kisses the back of it, the arch, the point of each little toe. Only then does he pull up her sock and slip on her shoe, tries not to look at her face for he knows that if he does he will keep them there another hour with his kisses.

This does not stop him from kissing her goodbye; he doubts an avalanche could stop him from that. Putting his hands against the small of her back, feeling just the edge of the rise of her bottom, wondering as always if she would slap him should he let his hand stray a bit lower—but he doesn’t, and he will not. Because her face is upturned towards him and a splash from one of her pebbles has left water dangling from an eyelash, and he gently wipes the drops away before kissing her mouth, sweet and warm and so willing under his. Far too willing; for he sometimes thinks that were he not to pull away she would not stop and they would find themselves naked in the grass like animals; and he has not been with a woman in the way one does, but he knows from men’s bawdy talk and his own stirrings how it is done. And he worries sometimes as he lies awake alone at night whether he would have the courage to push her away should she want that. The courage to brave her disappointment, her sadness, maybe even her tears… he doesn’t want to think of it. But there is little to think of that is not of her, and his mind strays from the softness of her skin less and less.

Nevertheless, he does pull away; kisses her once on each flushed cheek, each pale hand, before letting go and walking to the Grimes’s estate, turning back only once to see her hair sparkle in the morning light.

Both of them are late to breakfast. The other servants in Mr. Grimes’s household barely notice, but for the Greenes it is occasion for comment. Maggie is startlingly quiet, but Mr. Greene persists, asking what is so important on these walks that Beth would stay out until the bread has cooled. She gives her usual answer—how diverting nature is, Father!—before tucking into her food and letting it all be done. But she feels her sister’s eyes on her face and she colors under that look and she wonders why this morning feels so different between them.

She doesn’t have to wonder long. No sooner is she stepping outside to attend to the chicken coop then she feels Maggie’s strong hand on her elbow, dragging her behind the barn and out of earshot. Maggie isn’t one to mince words, and she doesn’t now.

 _I saw you with Mr. Grimes’s stableboy_.

A blush rises on Beth’s cheeks, but otherwise she does not act as Maggie expects. Her head does not bow, her hands don’t fiddle. The tremble a little, but that is only as she gathers them into fists.

_And?_

Maggie takes a step back, shocked at this version of her sister. The girl who simpers and demures whenever Mr. Jimmy Hawthorne comes round is nowhere to be seen.

_Your reputation will be ruined, Beth. A lady of your station, with a servant…_

_If Mr. Grimes had his way Daryl would not be a servant._ In Maggie’s shock she has bent and in Beth’s defiance she has straightened, so the sisters stand at nearly the same height. _When he earns enough money, he will be able to buy land and become a gentleman. And then I will marry him_.

In truth no talk of marriage has passed between them. Beth senses that Daryl sees his station as too low for her; she senses too that a plot of land would not make this feeling vanish completely. But Beth knew early in her life that she would not marry if not for love, and although neither has said the words she knows she could never love another man as she loves Daryl, or feel as loved as she does with his eyes or his thoughts on her.

But she does not say this to Maggie. Let her think they are engaged; it might keep her quiet a little longer, until Beth can figure out what to do.

This revelation shocks Maggie enough that Beth is able to slip away. Once Maggie gathers her senses, she calls after Beth, but Beth ignores her cries. Beth drops the basket she had brought for the eggs and sets off in a run for town.

She feels the pressure of many eyes upon her as she walks the streets, and she can only imagine how she must look. Dusty from running down the road, her hair not even done for the day and windswept besides. But she ignores them, ignores it all, walks until she sees his unruly mop of hair emerge through the crowd.

Beth stops for a moment to admire him, a chance she does not often have amongst others. His muscles bulge from under his vest as he heaves sacks of feed into an open wagon. His hair hangs in his sweaty face, his lips move as he says something to the shopkeeper. He raises a hand and swipes it across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt before bending and taking hold of the next sack.

Sometimes Beth has wondered if her feelings for him are just fantasy—that he joins her on her walks and together they disappear into a fairy land when he is King and she is Queen, destined to be so long as they keep the mortals at bay. She has lain awake at night trying to picture them in each other’s lives, wondering if the real world would even allow him to exist.

But there he is before her, dripping sweat, the most handsome man she has ever seen, his hands rough and strong when they can be so gentle on her face and the hems of her stockings—and he does not disappear in a puff of smoke. He does not ascend to a plane beyond her reach. He is a mere man and she loves him for it.

She pushes through the crowd until she stands beside the wagon. It takes him several moments to notice her, and when he does his eyes widen and he looks away quickly. But when she does not leave he slowly looks back up, takes in her appearance. A knit appears in his brow.

_You alright?_

_You said Mr. Grimes would sell you some land_ , she says, still a little breathless from her run. He silently offers her a skin of water, which she takes but does not drink from. _How long will that be? Daryl, how long?_

_This ain’t the place, girl–_

Beth steps forward and takes hold of his wrist, stilling his movements and his breath. For a moment they both look down at where they are connected—her hand so small on him, so clean and gentle while his remains rough and coarse—and when she looks up he is looking to the side.

 _Maggie saw us_ , she says. His head does not move, but she sees his jaw tic. _This morning. By the brook. Daryl, we must–_

 _There ain’t nothing to do, girl_ , he snarls, yanking his hand out of her grip and making her gasp. He pauses at the sound, at the shock on her face, but then allows his face to harden. _You think we could do this forever? Huh? You know the hell’s gonna rain down on me, people find I’ve touched you?_

_Maggie won’t tell anyone–_

_Bullshit_ , he snarls. Her eyes open wide at his language, and the way his beautiful arms now seem like something dangerous. He has never scared her before, not ever, but she sees how he could. _The jig is up, sweetheart_.

 _Why are you talking like this?_ Beth asks, stepping closer and feeling her heart seize when he takes a step back. _We’ll work it out–_

 _Go home, Beth,_ he says, turning from her. _Go the fuck home_.

She stands still by the wagon, ears roaring, eyes wide and running across his back. Even when he must turn towards her to lift the feed, he does not look her way. Once more, she does not exist.

When he is aware of her stepping away he does pause in his work and watches the back of her head as she pushes through the crowd, away towards home. He watches until she vanishes, heart squeezing tighter and tighter.

She does not look back once.

* * *

Maggie knows something has happened as soon as Beth returns, the dust on her face streaked through with tear tracks. But the set of her sister’s shoulders tells her not to ask, so she doesn’t. Maggie watches Beth disappear into the house and when she herself enters Beth is working her embroidery hoop, face screwed up tight, fingers trembling and tearing the stitches. She looks up at Maggie once, and her expression dares Maggie to say a word.

She doesn’t.

* * *

Beth does not go on her morning walks anymore.

She stays in bed instead. Not later than is proper, but she rises now with the breakfast bell instead of the dawn. The rest of her days do not change, but without her morning exercise she looks pale.

Maggie takes it to mean she has broken it off with Dixon, and she knows she should be rejoicing. As long as the stableboy keeps his mouth shut, no one will know of this but the three of them. Beth’s reputation will be safe, and she will marry Jimmy Hawthorne and inherit the Hawthorne estate and be provided for for the rest of her days.

But she does not receive Mr. Hawthorne when he comes around, and when he does she is curt and brief and not at all pleasant; not at all the Beth the village has known. And this news does spread, and questions of a lover rise, and when Mr. Greene confronts his daughter she laughs in his face. He tells her she must marry, and she laughs again. Says Maggie has not even moved out of the house yet; must he push his youngest away before the eldest is even settled? She is clever that way, in handling her father, for this turns his attention to Maggie and how long it is taking Mr. Rhee to construct their house, how you can never trust a Northerner with honest work, etc. Maggie argues in her Glenn’s defense and by the time they are done they have quite forgotten about Beth and her rumored affair.

But the neighborhood does not forget, and soon Beth cannot go into town without the whispers following her. Mr. Greene begs her to at least receive Jimmy Hawthorne, but she will not. At night Maggie sometimes hears her crying in the bed they share, and she learns quickly that Beth is in no search of comfort. At least not from her sister.

Maggie hears rumors of Dixon’s queer behavior too. How the once surly yet quiet man has begun drinking, starting fights. More than once Mr. Grimes himself has to come down to the pub and drag his man away, shove him down the road until Dixon’s shouts recede into the distance. The ladies and gentlemen see nothing amiss in it—this Dixon was bound to snap at any moment, everyone knew that as soon as they looked at him—but the shopkeepers are shocked. He is gruff, yes, but all in all a decent seeming fellow—one of the few to throw pennies to children begging on the streets, did his work without complaint. No one can decide on what riled him up. There are some mentions of a woman, but those suggestions are discredited right off. Dixon has never shown interest in women, nor in men; he was an oddity, but not a dangerous one. And now he is starting bar fights and shouting filth, and no one can make hide nor tail of it.

Maggie is careful to keep these rumors from Beth; knows they would only reopen a wound that has barely closed, if it has closed at all. Maggie knows this is what is best for her sister; she cannot be running around with a stablehand. But for each morning that Beth rises with bags under her eyes and longing looks towards the fields, Maggie feels her resolve begin to melt.

* * *

The Grimes family lives in a decent sized farmhouse on a lane of such houses. Their land is not as sprawling as that of the Greenes, but neither are they poor—they own several horses, after all, and maintain a decent grainery—and Maggie does not feel out of place as Glenn helps her from the carriage and they walk up to knock on the door.

A servant girl of about 12 answers, curtsying prettily and asking them to wait in the front room as she fetches Mr. Grimes. Maggie feels a bit guilty to be bothering him when he appears in his coarse workman’s clothes—he had clearly been busy in the fields—but she maintains her resolve. She adheres to the pleasantries; asks after his wife, who is shopping in town with their son; asks after his crops, which are faring as well as can be expected. When the conversation turns to the Rhees’ unfinished house, Maggie finally feels right in excusing herself, citing the need for some air.

She does not hesitate once as she strides towards the stable, being careful only to dodge the heaps of horse dung that spring up as she draws closer.

The inside of the stable is darker than she expected it to be, and she hesitates to let her eyes adjust to the light before stepping forward cautiously. She is only now realizing that she might be in some danger. If Dixon’s actions have been as erratic as she’s heard, perhaps she ought to have brought Glenn with her…

No sooner does the thought cross her mind than her eyes jump to movement in the shadows, and she watches as he materializes from inside a stall, wiping his hand on a rag and piercing eyes bright even in the darkness. Maggie straightens her back instead of cowering, but she also prepares to go for the pin holding her hat in place.

 _Mr. Dixon_ , she says, nodding her head.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move except for continuing to wipe his hands. His eyes are still on her, motionless. His lack of propriety annoys her.

 _Mr. Dixon, we need to talk_ , she says firmly, fighting past her unease to take a step further. As her leg settles her shoulders freeze; she looks down and sees her shoe nestled in a pile of manure.

She looks up and finds Dixon smirking. She has the strange feeling that she has just now earned his respect.

 _So talk_ , he says.

* * *

The Greene farmhouse is not anywhere equal to the houses of the grand estates, but it has enough room for the family to live comfortably, and then some. Being a private child, Beth quickly found the nooks and crannies where she could escape her governess and be alone with a book and her imagination. Most of these spaces she grew out of, but she will never relinquish her favorite by far: a window seat on the second floor overlooking the garden, gossamer curtains available to pull around the cushions and ensconce her from the rest of the house.

She came up here often while she was seeing Daryl, to write in her diary what they had done that day, away from the prying eyes that might question her blush and giddy smile.

She has barely touched her diary since he rejected her, but today she has it open in her lap, flipping through the well-worn pages that chronicle her time with him. It seems almost like a dream now; it is only this notebook, this little scrap of parchment and leather, that remains to tether the two of them together.

Her head jerks up when the curtain twitches as if someone has pressed on it from the outside. Beth holds her breath and hears the breathing of another, hovering. It is some time before the figure speaks.

_Beth?_

Beth is worried she will have a heart attack and swoon then and there. Her eyes open wide and she presses the closed diary to her chest, still hardly daring to breathe. She draws her knees towards her body and scrunches her bare toes and tries to calm the beating of her heart.

She knows that voice. The voice that came with the dawn, filtering through the reeds, soft and sweet beside the babble of the brook. She has not heard it in weeks but all of a sudden the words she had been reading in her diary seem fit to pour from her mouth.

She waits instead. She knows he knows she is there. If he abandons her now without a second try she will know he is not serious; that some madness brought him to her door, into her house, up the stairs and standing beside her little nook. It always felt like madness, being with him, but she knows it cannot be so anymore.

So she waits.

After a pause that lasts a century she hears her name again—softer, less of a question, filled with breeze and birds and mist—and she feels her heart pound ever harder as she lowers her feet to the floor, slips her diary under the cushion beneath her and works to gather her courage.

 _Yes_? she whispers, knowing he will hear, and she waits with bated breath as the curtains rustle. She wonders if he must gather his courage too.

And then the fabric parts and he is there, dressed in the nicest clothes she has ever seen him in—without stain, sitting well across his shoulders—and goodness, he has even combed his hair.

She will take all that in later though. In the first moment it is only one word in her mind, one song in her heart, all to the rhythm of his name.

He hesitates when he first draws the curtain aside, comes very close to clutching it, staring at her face like he has not seen her in years. And it feels like years, to both of them, even though it could not have been more than a month.

Beth clears her throat, looking at her hands folded in her lap.

 _Mr. Dixon_ , she murmurs.

She hears him draw in a sharp breath, pause a moment more, then slip inside the curtain and pull it shut. He settles on the cushion beside her in the same awkward posture, except his hands are flat on his thighs. They twitch, and she knows he is trying desperately not to bring them to his mouth and chew at his nails. He does that when he is nervous. He is very nervous now.

 _Who let you in?_ she asks, still not looking at him.

 _Mag-, Mrs. Rhee_ , he says. Beth nods, twisting her nails this way and that, examining the neatly trimmed edges. _She told me to come round. That your father wouldn’t be here_.

That does surprise her, and she looks up into his face.

She knows at once that this is a mistake. He’s staring at her like he has so many times in the past, and though the light is different and the smells those of home and not of the wild, the effect is the same. She feels her world shrinking down, shimmering and fragile beneath his attention until she and he are all that exist. Dangerous. Surely dangerous, when after this talk he will go and she will see him no more.

She feels a pressure on her hand and she snaps her gaze away from his, dropping it to her lap where he has touched his fingers to her wrist. When she doesn’t pull away his touch becomes more sure; and soon his hand envelops hers and she is shaking.

 _Beth_ , he says, rolling her name around his mouth like a parched man might his first drink, _Beth, I’m sorry._

Beth swallows, and in their confined space it echoes. The day outside is overcast, but still there is light on the two of them, playing in their eyes and hair.

 _Whatever for?_ Beth asks, telling herself to pull her hand away and yet finding her will far too weak.

 _For what I said. Ignoring you. I–_ He squeezes her hand, squeezes it like he is anchoring himself. _I never had nothing like you, Beth. And then I did have you, and you were mine, and I didn’t know what to do that wouldn’t bust it all up._

 _You did anyway,_ Beth says without thought. He flinches but does not pull away. His hand looks so large in her lap, rough and work-worn, and she wants so badly to wrap her other hand around his and feel the scars on his knuckles with her fingertips. _I was yours, Daryl. I am, I–, I’ve never stopped thinking of you. Not for a moment._

 _Me neither._ Daryl shuffles closer to her, just the tiniest bit, but it is enough for his knee to brush hers. He leans into her, and after a terrible moment she leans in too. Her breaths are quick and shallow like he’s been kissing her, but she doesn’t feel like she does after his kisses, not at all; she feels faint, but not from laughter.

She forces herself to pull back, just a little. Show some restraint. Behave like a lady.

_How-, how can I help you, Mr. Dixon?_

He doesn’t look affronted or surprised by her return to formality—simply determined.

 _I–, I wanna marry you, Beth._ She schools her face, continues her breathing, lets her hand remain in his. She will not react to this. She will not. Still he searches her face for a clue. _I know it ain’t… I know your dad wouldn’t like it. Hell, the town would… but I’m dying without you, girl. Every day I’m dying._

_We could keep on as before. Marriage is–_

_I don’t_ want _what we had before_ , Daryl nearly snarls, leaning closer until she can taste his breath. He puts a rough hand on her cheek and his grip is so, so soft. _I wanna marry you_ , he says, with a conviction she doesn’t think she’s ever heard from him. _I can build us a house—Rick’s land ain’t big but there’s enough for a sharecropping. And I could join the militia, or work in town or something else respectable and… and I know it ain’t much,_ he says, now clutching both her hands with his. _You wouldn’t be a lady no more. Just some asshole’s wife. But it’d get better–_

 _Daryl_ , she says, trying to keep the tears from her voice _, Daryl, you’re… God, I want to marry you too_. Tears begin spilling down Daryl’s face, and Beth is soon to follow. _And so much of me doesn’t care about what you just said. We could_ , she laughs, _we could live in the hayloft and eat horseseed and I’d be happy. And… and maybe children…?_

_I want ‘em. With you I want ‘em. Whenever you want._

_Sweet Daryl_ , Beth whispers, stroking her fingertips across his face. More tears pour down her cheeks. He holds her hands tighter. _It’s just… my daddy… I don’t know…_

 _I’ll talk to him_ , Daryl says desperately, _I’ll tell him what I can do for you, and I… it ain’t a lot but it’s something, right?_ He swallows. _And we love each other. We love each other, right?_

 _We do,_ Beth murmurs. She leans forward until her forehead is pressing to his, and he breathes a sigh like his last breath. They’re practically embracing now, so close are they on the cushion, and Beth could not explain this away should they be discovered. She finds she doesn’t care about that much. _I… Daryl, my father is a good man, but he won’t be kind to you. He’s already made allowances with Mr. Rhee, and the whole town will talk–_

– _till one of the Harrison sisters runs off with an army man and they got something new to chew on. It ain’t gospel, Beth, it’s gossip. We live our lives and it’ll go away on its own._

 _Look who’s changed his tune,_ Beth murmurs. She’s pleased to see a faint blush suffuse Daryl’s face.

 _Maybe it ain’t true,_ he says. _Maybe I’m just hopin’, but… I never had nothing like you. Beth Greene, I never did._ She stares into his eyes and feels like she’s drowning. _Lemme have something,_ he whispers against her mouth. _Lemme have you. Lemme try._

Beth hears movement in another part of the house. Her sister’s voice rises, and then that of her father. Beth expects Daryl to panic, but he hasn’t looked away from her once. Under his gaze Beth makes her decision.

 _You have me, Daryl_ , she says softly. She feels his breath tremble against hers. Her father’s voice is getting louder, but she can’t find it in herself to care. _You never had to try_ , she says, leaning into his kiss. At last, she thinks. At last. _You always did._

* * *

Beth sits on the day couch, then at the table, then the loveseat and the day couch again, tugging a loose thread on the seam of her dress until half the row comes free.

Maggie finds her when she’s reached the loveseat again. She takes one look at Beth’s face—and the door to Daddy’s study that her gaze is focused on—and knows immediately what her plans have wrought.

She doesn’t know whether to feel elated or doomed.

Beth’s feelings run much the same course, although their turns are sharper and their edges like knives. She hardly notices Maggie sitting down beside her, and even when she does she can’t drag her eyes away from the study door.

 _Mr. Dixon is in there?_ Maggie asks, finally breaking the interminable silence.

 _Yes_ , Beth says, tapping a staccato beat against her leg. _Since noon_.

 _That is not so bad a sign_ , Maggie says. _He took this long and more with Glenn._ When Beth does not reply, Maggie nudges her sister’s shoulder with her own. _Surely this is good? He could have kicked him out as soon as he poked his nose in the door. Even if they are arguing–_

 _I can’t bear this_ , Beth says, standing and walking towards the parlor door, then doubling back and retaking her seat by Maggie. _Why can I not be in there with them? This is my marriage, my future, and it’s as if I have no say in it–_

 _Have faith, darling,_ Maggie says. _You have had your say and more. You love him._ She raises her eyebrows at Beth’s surprised look. _Yes, I have accepted it, you needn’t look at me like a ghost._ Maggie joins Beth in her viewing of the study door. _At least he is not a Northerner._

Beth laughs, but before she can reply the two of them freeze. The door knob is turning.

Maggie takes Beth’s hand and squeezes hard. They both stand.

Maggie’s first thought is that Dixon’s suit must be worth more than the man makes in a year. It is perfectly pressed, cravat and all; she imagines Mr. Grimes enlisted his wife’s help in readying his man for his potential bride. His shaggy hair is combed back from his face, his cheeks clean and sleek. He looks strange in such handsome attire, and yet not entirely uncomely. In fact he looks rather gallant.

Maggie hears Beth’s breath catch beside her, and she bites her lip to settle her smirk. She is not the only one impressed by Dixon’s appearance, it seems.

“Da-, Father,” Beth says, curtsying stiffly. Maggie inclines her own head, peeking up at Dixon’s face. As usual, the man is unreadable. He glances at Maggie and nods, then lowers his chin, clearly avoiding Beth’s gaze. Maggie cannot hear Beth breathing anymore and squeezes her hand until she lets out a long exhale. It would not do to come so far only for Beth to die from lack of air.

And then there is their father, looking between the three of them with an inscrutable expression of his own. He does it once more, then sighs and rubs his forehead.

_It seems Mr. Harrison will get no rest from arranging dowries this year._

The sisters blink. Beth looks at Daryl and just catches the small smile climbing his face.

Daryl holds Mr. Greene upright when Beth launches herself into her father’s arms, tears streaming down her face as she hugs him tight. He is speaking—about how he cannot believe the men his daughters will be married to, how lucky they are that he can afford to support them—but she does not listen. It is nothing more than his good natured grumbling, and besides—Daryl is looking at her. Looking at her with a love that steals her breath and were it not for propriety would drag her from her father’s arms to his. She contents herself with meeting Daryl’s eyes over her father’s shoulder, hoping he can see the same light shining from within her.

He smiles again—such a rare thing, his smiles!—and then her father pulls away and they are caught in talk of dates and flower arrangements and hiring a cook–

Daryl steps away from the conversation, hands in his pockets and head down, smile wiped from his face—but Beth is not fooled. And when her father leaves the room and she can walk over to him and touch his wrist–

She is to be married. Beth Greene and Daryl Dixon are to be married.

* * *

The breeze from the open window does little to cool Beth’s flushed face and body, but that is not so surprising. Two bodies beneath a comforter generate heat even on the coldest nights.

Beth stirs a little from where she lies with her cheek pressed against his chest—his bare chest! And her hand on his bare stomach, softly furred and rising and falling with his breath, their legs tangled and sweaty and his hand carding softly through her loose hair. She wonders if this is how he calms his horses, or if it is a caress designed just for her. Nevertheless, it is lulling her to sleep, and she does not want to sleep yet.

After a moment’s deliberation, she presses a kiss to his collarbone. His hand stills, then tugs gently, pulling her onto his arm so he can turn and see her face. There are several candles burning that one of them will have to put out themselves—the servants are not allowed inside a marriage chamber, after all, and even so they have but one. Their house is modest and built on the very corner of Mr. Grimes’s lands and Beth cried when she saw it as they drove up in the carriage after the reception. Daryl had circled his arm around her, as he does now; he kissed her forehead, as he does once more; he did not turn his body so she can feel him, all of him, even his manhood pressing into her stomach, but he does so now and she goes pink but does not complain. There is nothing in the world whatsoever to complain about.

 _Mrs. Dixon_ , he says, awed, like such a thing should not be possible.

 _Mr. Dixon_ , she responds a little playfully, and he squeezes her tighter, squeezes until she laughs and wriggles against him. She feels his manhood stirring against her stomach, but it does not frighten her like she feels it should. He was so gentle taking her maidenhead, whispering with red cheeks that he had never done a thing like this either. It was her in the end who did the guiding until they were both sweaty and out of breath and the pounding need between Beth’s legs had finally exploded, leaving her limbs scrambling and clinging to him like her body could not contain all it was feeling. The whole business was messy and more than a bit awkward but, well, they had figured out so much with each other’s help already. Why not this one more thing?

Daryl’s hand lands heavy on her hip and she stops moving.

_You keep doing that, imma have to turn you over and do you again, girl._

The words are vulgar and the acts (supposed to be) unspeakable; but that does not stop the deluge of heat that surges through her. Looking him in the eyes, Beth moves his hand from her hip to her breast. Daryl sighs, touching her gently until her hand covers his and presses it against her heart, fluttering like a bird beneath her skin.

 _Mrs. Dixon_ , she murmurs, tracing his parted lips with her fingertips. _Oh, I like how that sounds_.

They do not know how long they stay in that bed together. Another day they might. They will have a farm full of duties to attend to, plus Daryl’s job in Mr. Grimes’s stables. There will be social calls for Beth and children, maybe, children enough that Daryl will need to build more rooms and become close with the masters in town, prepare their sons for apprenticeship, their daughters for whatever learning they will want.

They know one thing. At dawn Beth rises from her doze, drawing a robe around herself as she walks to the window. Daryl is awake, but does not rise; lies in bed and watches her outline shimmer fine and diaphanous in the morning light.

 _We may walk every dawn together now_ , Beth murmurs. She thinks she is too quiet to hear, but Daryl rumbles behind her. She turns to look at him, in their bed, upon their pillow, and thinks of the thrushes they never disturbed: the nesting ones, short of wing but full of song all the same.

Beth smiles, and returns to bed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think!


End file.
